quicksand
by makapedia
Summary: He'll deal with it tomorrow, just like he'll deal with Maka's hungry whining and her bruises and split lip, and he'll deal with his own sore hips and whatever, whatever. This is the life he lives.


It always happens when they're licking their wounds.

Maka gets this look in her eye. He blames it on her upbringing, her surroundings, the legacy of which she lives; she is Maka Albarn, daughter of the Death Scythe, born and raised in Death City. She is Maka Albarn, and this connection they share — this bond between weapon and meister — gets her off like nothing else.

It's impossible for him _not_ to notice. They're bound so deeply, souls intertwined so intricately that he can't ignore the arousal coiling in her gut.

Soul sets down the roll of gauze. Looks up at her from where he's kneeling on the floor, positioned so conveniently between her knees and it would be so easy, he thinks, to lose himself to this, to her and the look in her eyes. She has this way about her, unrelenting attention and devoted concentration, and it unravels him more efficiently than any pick up line ever could.

It's sort of embarrassing. Soul finds himself scowling and pinching her thigh. "Not until you stop bleeding, idiot."

Maka chuffs. "I don't know what you mean."

"I can hear you from here." Soul taps his head and then pinches her again, lightly. Her skin is warm between his fingers, slick with sweat, and Maka squirms in front of him. "Stop moving and this won't hurt so much."

"It doesn't hurt."

She is the most stubborn person he knows. And the weirdest. Soul dabs the cotton ball to her cut again and can practically _hear _her wincing. Stubborn, reckless girl, with twiggy legs of steel and bruises all along her thighs from bracing the rod of his scythe against her. Doesn't hurt his _ass_; she's so banged up that it makes him angry, makes him upset at his own incompetence — good weapons protect their meisters. Good weapons don't let their frustrating, adorable, pig-tailed meisters get hurt like this.

Maka sighs. Then she flicks his forehead, leaning forward on the ledge of the bathtub she's seated herself on. "I can hear _you _from here too."

He is careful with her. They have rituals, _routines,_ and they always end like this — Soul, playing the role of the dutiful weapon, bowed between his meister's spread legs, just shy of where he really wants to be, busy tending to the wounds she shouldn't have. And Maka sits on her makeshift throne with stormy eyes, dark like nothing else, the most confusing evergreen. And for a while, they pretend this is just that, routine, and that Maka's soul doesn't call for his like the sweetest siren's call, and Soul pretends he can't hear it.

And if he lingers a little too long, and if he presses his cheek to her thigh, well, who's going to blame him? They're both just victims of circumstances, two soldiers in way over their heads. Two souls practically stitched together out of devotion.

"Idiot," he mutters. "Let me protect you."

Maka huffs and pushes a hand through his hair. She drags him back and forces him to look at her. "Let me protect _you._"

She doesn't get it. She never has. He has steel bones, thick, inky blood and the grit of a weapon; she is talented but only one girl, only one _human_ girl, and not for the first time, Soul wishes he could just tie her up somewhere and keep her safe.

But then she smiles at him, tiny and honest, and all of that goes out the window.

Idiot. She'll be the death of him.

"Let me at least finish bandaging you up," he mumbles, bowing to press his lips to the crook of her thigh.

Soul doesn't need to see her to feel the flutter in her gut, the way her blood's begun to run heavy. It would be too easy to fall under her spell. Soul presses his lips together and leans back, allowing himself space to coil the bandage around her thigh. He doesn't understand how someone so strong can be so small, how someone with a heart as passionate and headstrong as hers can have such thin limbs, such fragile bones. How Maka can pick herself up time and time again and spit out blood, how she can grip the handle of his weapon form and stare death down without a hint of hesitation.

He doesn't understand how it gets him going, either. Inappropriate. There can't be a worse time to be attracted to his meister than when she's fighting for her life. It makes him feel like a creep.

Maybe he's the idiot. Soul sure talks a big game for someone who's so ready to go too.

He just has better self control. Soul of the iron will, of the loyal blood. He presses a kiss just south of where he'd bandaged and breathes out against her skin, slow and steady, and takes a moment to just enjoy being alive in this life with her.

Then Maka fidgets and drags him up to her face by the hair. He lets her, because he is hers to handle, and her kiss is as blunt and bullheaded as she is.

It can't happen here. One of them has to have a sense of self preservation, and even if he doesn't necessarily have any himself, he does have some in the reserves for her. It's easy to lift her when she already has those mile-long legs linked around his hips, and all Soul has to focus on is balancing and ignoring the way his knees creek into place as he stands — and okay, maybe he has to focus on kissing her too, because it'd be a shame to disappoint his meister and allow her to think this isn't something he wants, too. Because he does.

Just… not in their bathroom.

"You're so _strong,_" she marvels.

Brat. "Don't make fun of me."

She presses a smile to the corner of her mouth. As if she doesn't know that she could break him in half. Well, whatever. There are still things he can do for her, even if he doesn't have rippling muscles and a beefy torso; Soul has other talents, and Maka must know what she's gotten into, romancing a slouchy musician with bedhead.

They tumble into his bed before he has the chance to overthink it. He's sure he has enough pillows to cushion her fall, and so he doesn't over think that, either. Instead, Soul indulges himself, still just happy to be alive, and that's a feeling that he never thought he'd have. It inspires something in him, and he takes his sweet time appreciating her and the body in which she lives, warm skin and soft hair and wide eyes and blunt teeth. Her narrow hips fit in his hands so snugly, and she's eager beneath him, kissing him with the sort of possessive bite that sets his heart on fire.

She wears too many layers. Ties her tie too tightly. Soul busies himself with freeing her of her constraints while Maka absolutely destroys his hair. She tugs and pulls and tries to drag him back to her mouth. His meister is so demanding in her affections, and normally he finds such a feat endearing, but right now, when he's just trying to get her undressed, it's frustrating. He can only be in so many places at once.

"_Impatient,_" he grunts, as Maka grinds the heel of her foot into the back of his leg.

His meister is as impatient as she is passionate, as eager as she is reckless, and she's got his shirt up and over his head before he even realizes it. Hell, he hadn't noticed that she'd stopped pulling his hair. Those are meister hands for you, he supposes; she's so damn good with them, so crafty, and if her sense of music was better she might have a chance on the piano, too.

Ah. But then again, Maka's never been one for gentleness, never been delicate in her administrations. She is strong, with a firm grip and bruised fingers and a burning pulse, and to have such hands wield him is as arousing as it gets for him. If those hands want to rip his clothes off so be it. Soul is not foolish enough to complain.

He'll just have to distract her. Soul licks his way to her lips, kissing her soundly, fingers manueving the intricate knot of her tie. He jimmies it loose and then gives a tug, and his scrappy meister groans and digs her nails into his shoulders.

Her lip is soft between his teeth. A little chapped. Perhaps even split; Soul can taste the tang of blood on his tongue.

Shit.

"Sorry," he mutters, leaning back to access the situation.

Her pigtails are lopsided, and Maka's mouth is a little bloody, but her eyes are dark and pupils focused, and Soul feels naked, despite still wearing pants and boxers. She focuses on his chest, eyes undoubtedly tracing the line of his scar, fretting over every misshapen and crooked stitch.

That just won't do. He's not in the business of depressing her. All he really wants to do is worship the body in which she walks, to cherish the soul that glows so brightly it's nearly blinding. Soul twists his fingers in the hem of her sweater vest and hauls it over her head unceremoniously, and when she squirms and wriggles and berates him for catching her off guard, Soul bites her neck.

Gently. He has to be mindful of these things. His meister is a warrior, but her skin does not shift to metal like his does. Maka bleeds red when she's been punctured, and she cries when she's hurt, even as she slays monsters and demons alike. The last thing he wants is for her to cry.

She sighs through her nose. She's not graceful in her movements, and her knees are knobby and clumsy, but she manages to wiggle herself against him, dragging her hands up and down the length of his back. And she can make him bleed, that's fine; Soul bleeds black these days, and even if he didn't, Maka can mark him all she wants. He'd wear the scars proudly, like a brand, and he is happy to be hers, no matter the connotation.

"You're so slow," she whines, and her feet are digging in to his mattress now.

"No," Soul says, leaning back to admire the hickey he'd just left on her. "_You're _impatient. Always trying to skip to the good part."

"It's the good part for a reason!" she chuffs, then slaps on his back. "Get the thing!"

_Patience,_ he thinks, kissing his way up to her ear, sucking the lobe between his lips. Patience is a virtue his meister ought to learn. Besides. Doesn't she know what he wants, too? Can't she read between his lines? He knows she can read his soul; even more than him, she's an expert at knowing his intentions, and it has everything to do with those damn eyes of hers, her aptness with soul perception.

She whines again and twists her hands back through his hair. "Cheese ball."

"Whatever."

Soul sits back on his knees and works on unbuttoning her blouse. There are so many tiny buttons, little pearlescent latches that guard him from what he really wants; more than anything else, more than the actual act, Soul just wants to feel her against him, wants to melt against her skin and pretend that they're one, just for a second. It's nice to be able to forget who he is and pretend that they live a normal life, and trying to mold her against him is one of his few private joys in life. She may be bandaged and bloody but she's alive, and he might be rough around the edges and disturbed in the head but he's alive, too, and Soul's craved intimacy for as long as he can remember.

It means something to him, this slow burning in his veins, each calloused finger tip on his meister's capable hands. She ought to know that by now. Of course he's going to take his time and admire the view.

She's so pale that her blush reaches even past the collar of her shirt. The lace of her bra is adorable and simple and so her that it hurts, and Maka practically throws the blouse off as soon as he's finished unbuttoning it.

Hasty idiot. He loves her.

"Stop thinking so much," she huffs, then links her fingers in his beltloops.

That's his line. Soul slides a knee between her legs and allows her to work against his jeans to try and alleviate some of her, erm. Frustrations.

"Uuuugh, idiot, _idiot,_" she whispers. "I'm _fine._"

She's a hypocrite. He knows she'd be the same way if the roles were reversed. Ah, well, Soul thinks, shifting a single finger to blade and snapping her bra off of her — maybe she'll think twice about making him worry next time. Maybe she'll actually think before rushing to the front lines like an impulsive hothead.

Maka gasps. "H-Hey! You— you _know_ those are expensive—"

He does. But she's cute, and Maka doesn't complain when he's dragging his tongue down the line of her sternum, and really, those eyes could light him ablaze, with the blatant want swimming there. "I'll replace it," he promises.

Wes always did say he wanted to buy Soul things. He won't mind if Soul twists the rules a little and uses his credit card to splurge and spoil Maka a little.

"_Soul._"

She's slight, but that's never bothered him, and there's never been another person alive that could get him going the way Maka does. She's pretty, and her skin prickles beneath him, aroused with eager goosebumps, and _perky_, and— and when he's got a nipple between his lips, Maka falls apart.

He hears the twinkling of piano keys somewhere in the back of his mind. Something dark but lively, building in momentum, and Soul turns his brain off and allows himself to simply live in the moment for once. He'd never really understood what people meant when they'd made a big deal about tits before — surely there'd been a disconnect somewhere in his brain, something that made him different — but then there'd been Maka and her heart, Maka and the pretty line of her spine, Maka and her smile, and he got it. She cast a shadow that he can't help but chase.

It only serves to frustrate her more. Maka's wriggling has gotten more desperate, and he does feel a little bad, if only because he does want her to have good things (like orgasms). But he is greedy, and though he doesn't indulge often, this is the one place he feels truly safe in life. It's nice, to be so close to her heart, to feel her heartbeat thump against him, the steady cadence to the spiraling music in his soul.

"_Please,_ Soul," she says finally, tiny and pleading.

But he cannot disobey his meister for very long. He is hers to use, after all. Soul smiles against her skin and presses one final kiss to her collarbone. Fine. She wins.

She always wins. Only it doesn't feel so much like losing as it does indulging the woman he loves.

"One sec," he promises, then waits until she nods her permission before he pulls himself back.

Parting from her is always the hardest part. She is the most darling bear trap, long legs and angelic soul and bitten fingernails, and Soul knows she could make him stay, if she really wanted to. And there's a mushy, embarrassing part of him that does want to stay there forever tangled up in her, kissing and touching and feeling, and _so what_ if foreplay is his favorite part?

But what Maka wants Maka gets. And if it's getting fucked into the mattress, then Soul is legally obligated to help her. Morally obligated. Emotionally obligated.

Okay. He wants to. He wants whatever she wants. And he sort of wants it for himself, too, fine, whatever.

The back of his neck burns. He can practically feel her eyes on him as he reaches over to his nightstand. By the time he's turned back around, Maka's already stripped herself butt naked and Soul's left feeling clammy-handed and stupid.

He tells himself not to stare. He stares a little anyway, because he is helpless and just a scythe, and she's pretty, whether she realizes it or not.

But at least she's blushing too, despite her eagerness. Maka squirms a little and crosses her arms over her chest, and that's weird, that she's still embarrassed over something as stupid as her cup size when she's laying bare assed in his bed, but whatever. He knows her but won't pretend to understand everything about her — Maka is still Maka, even if she's kickass and wears steel-toed boots, and there will always be demons in her closet. And he gets that. He's the same way.

It's why they work so well. It's also why he's so goddamn hot for her.

Soul wills his hands to work. Despite sweaty, eager hands, he manages to finagle straps, and with how clammy his palms are he probably doesn't need the lube, but he wrestles with the bottle anyway, teeth grit. He can feel Maka's eyes from him, burning holes into the line of his spine, and he wants nothing more than to _hurry up_ and melt into her, but despite his talented fingers, Soul just can't seem to manage to have the hands of meister.

It only takes him half a second longer than necessary, he thinks. But it's long enough for his stubborn, reckless, impatient meister to slide her way over to him and press her hand to the small of his back.

Soul tries hard not to lean back into her touch. Dammit. "Hey."

"Hey," she says, then slides her hand around to cup his hip from behind. Maka gives an encouraging tug back. "Let me help?"

"What, did I take too long for you?"

She presses a kiss to his shoulder and then slides her arms around him completely. The warm weight of her pressed up against him does embarrassing things to his heart - _and_ between his legs, _ugh_ \- but Soul is nothing if not cool, so he grimaces and keeps quiet as Maka pets down his stomach. Keep it together, Evans. She comes first. Always.

"Yes," she says, so damn frankly that Soul thinks he could be offended, if she wasn't finessing the lube out of his hands. "You always make me wait for the good part."

"Good things come to those who wait." And maybe he likes teasing her a little, okay. Maybe he likes drawing out soft sighs and gasps out of his meister, and who could blame him, when she sounds as pretty as she does? Between the sheets, he's far more methodical than she is.

It's funny. He's hardly studied a day in his life, but when it comes to her, Soul feels kind of like a bookworm. And by funny he means jarring.

But nice. It's nice to feel passionate about something, even if that something is touching Maka and loving Maka and watching the way her lashes flutter when she comes undone.

Maka presses her mouth to his neck and he can hear her think '_cheese ball'_.

He has nothing left to do but stare at her hands as she works. Steady, rough hands, with bitten fingernails and calloused fingertips and bruises along the palms, and Soul thinks this is it, Death City has finally gotten to him, because there's never been anything more attractive to him than watching her strap him up with her mangled hands. Hands that could've been dainty and cute, perhaps, if it wasn't for years of wielding him and fighting the monsters and demons alike, but - but he owes so much to these hands, and it's become impossible for him to separate the two in his head.

These hands could move mountains. They wield him. Hold pencils too tightly and struggle to tie pigtails evenly. They handle him with such devoted loyalty that Soul could cry, if he wasn't manly and cool and also so turned on he thinks he might just explode.

He feels her smile against him. Those chapped, split lips carve his heart clean out of his chest effortlessly. Those fingers of hers get touchy-feely, and then she's working those slick digits against him, a smart thumb brushing something particularly sensitive and making him jump. "Good?"

"Hhh." Brat. What a _brat. _Soul links his fingers around her wrist. "I'll getcha."

Her pulse spikes beneath his thumb. He might be flesh and bone now, but Soul takes a moment to summon the will of a weapon in order to turn himself around and untangle himself from Maka's seductive web. He can't just sit here and let her get him off before she's even gotten a taste of what she's been wanting all night - what kind of partner would he be, if that was the sort of selfless behavior he let fly? They're either equals or they're nothing at all.

She stares at him, pupils blown wide, and Soul takes the moment to press a warm kiss to her palm. Watches as she watches _him, _and observes, perhaps a tad perversely, as she zeroes in on his tongue, as he sucks her middle finger into his mouth.

Maka has no mask. She wears everything so openly on her face, and with her soul blown wide like this, he can't miss the rush of blood, the magnetic orbit of her and her heart. Her finger pops out of his mouth and he pivots, and then Maka is climbing onto his lap without flourish and a bony knee knocks against his hip as she works on mounting the other end of the strap on.

Impatient. Soul manages to get his fingers between her legs and spreads her before she has the chance to rush too far ahead.

She looks down too. Presses her forehead against his, and he can feel how fiercely she's blushing, even with the distance between their cheeks. Maka pauses, long enough to allow Soul to rub circles around her clit - because so what if they'd lubed the damn thing up, there are still rituals, okay, and feeling Maka's shaky exhale against his cheek is a special treasure, alright.

"Soul," she sighs.

Yeah, okay. He can feel how keyed up she is; it's like a violin string that's been tuned too tightly. Still. Soul cups her hips in his hands instead of shifting his hips forward, and the whining noise Maka makes nearly splits him in two.

But he has a duty here. A meister to patch up. "Let me do the work."

She chuffs and plants both hands on his face. Pushes his hair out of his eyes and brushes her nose against his. "No."

"You're injured." She'd never own up to it, but Soul knows her legs have to be sore after the beating they'd taken tonight, and though his meister is notoriously stubborn, he is just as protective. If nothing else - if she won't allow him to protect her the way he wants, and if she won't use his demonsteel for its intended purpose and guard properly, then he will shoulder the physical toll of plowing her into his mattress.

How knightly of him. Saintly, even. Soul tries not to think about his own selfish intentions and instead tilts his head back to kiss her nose.

Her grip on his hair tightens. She presses her lips together in a pout. "No."

"The weapon protects the meister," he says, as if this has anything to do with scythe instincts. He leans forward and Maka's just off of her game enough to tumble backwards into his pillows. Missionary is something far more familiar and surely far easier on her trembling thighs - and sure, some of that trembling might have something to do with the hand he has between her legs, but there are bruises blooming there, dark purple and stark against her lily-white skin.

But she doesn't allow him to go far. With the grip she has on him, they tumble forward together, and then he's straddling her, and yeah, that feels nice, too. From this angle he can see everything.

"What are you protecting me from?" she asks cheekily.

Bad sex. A crick in her neck. He doesn't know. "Does it matter?" he asks, taking the strap into his hands and flicking the switch on before he has the chance to be embarrassed.

Maka never looks away at him. If she's reading his soul, she's not subtle.

Right. If he's going to talk a big game, he's going to have to walk the walk. _Let me take care of you,_ god. He could keel over and die if he wasn't so invested in giving Maka what she wants without letting her gather more bruises in the process. They really should be doing anything else but this, he thinks - Soul and Maka, making mac n cheese at 1 in the morning, downing some ibuprofen and sleeping off the pre-kishin hangover - but there is something undeniable about wanting to be with her right now, in the closest way he can, and if it's what Maka wants, well. He thinks she's earned it.

He has to keep his wits. Has to take a leg into his hands and just… hold her for a second, admiring the warm weight of her, the firm muscle beneath her skin. Slip into her and get the show on the road. Soul watches her face with rapt attention, watches every subtle bite of her swollen lip, watches the way her lashes flutter when she's feeling full and her legs are linking around his hips like a vice.

His bones feel like jelly. He can't manage a smile. Soul exhales and brushes her bangs from her eyes. "Yeah?"

"Have you gotten bigger lately?"

The laugh surprises him. He pinches her cheek lightly. "Thank Wes's credit card."

"_That's_ weird," Maka says, but she's smiling a little, and the way she's squeezing her legs around his waist makes him weak in the knees. "I'll write him a thank you note."

"Please don't." The last thing he wants to think about right now is his brother knowing anything about his sex life. "He doesn't know."

"Spoiled rich boy. Must be nice to get whatever you want."

The dig of her nails on his shoulders ground him better than any command ever could. God. He wants her to rip him apart and cling to him for dear life. He _wants _to move and rut himself against her and pray at the altar that is Maka Albarn, thank you, _goodnight,_ but.

But she's cheeky, and Soul has a point to prove, always. He bows before her and presses a kiss to her collarbone. "What do _you_ want?"

She sighs and drags her nails down his back. Soul could purr. He doesn't. Instead, he reads between her lines, in the way only a faithful, loyal weapon could, and ignores the crick in _his _neck to draw his hips back and then piston forward. They fall into a rhythm then, Soul getting the both of them off while Maka pulls his hair, and it's the weirdest power trip for him, to be in control for once. It's nice, he thinks, maybe, but there's a tightness, a pressure that's building in him, and he wonders, not for the first time, how Maka manages this control all of the time without crumbling beneath the pressure.

But for now it is fine. For now, he has a duty to serve, a Maka to please, and it's good for him, too. She is slight but everything, skinny knees and fat ankles and flat chest and eyes that see him, more than anyone else ever has. Soul can wield his meister, just for tonight, can drag the flat of his tongue over a tight nipple and feel the way her entire being trembles. He can roll her clut between dexterous fingers and take pride in what he can do for her.

It allows him to ignore how close he is, too. Maka might be teetering on this edge, might be fighting to stay afloat, but he's not far behind. Soul wonders if he should be the one to write Wes a thank you note for shouldering a loftier credit card bill than normal, but - but then he thinks no, _fuck_ no, licks his way up his meister's neck, screws his eyes shut and focuses on getting Maka over that ledge before he loses this race.

It doesn't take her very long. Soul is so intune with her that he knows the moment it happens, her world is rocked, and it is impossible for him to not get caught up in her tide. His face is pressed to his pillows, thankfully, and Maka can't see any embarrassing faces he might make as he comes and - _good,_ he thinks, lifting himself up on shaking hands. Good. He can remain cool.

He can switch the damn vibe off and pretend like he's not exhausted. Pretend like his knees aren't sore and his thighs aren't trembling and that the way Maka's looking at him doesn't make him want to pull her into his arms and never let go.

Cool guy. He is cool. He has a reputation to uphold, dammit.

Maka lets out a deep breath. She looks prettier than she has any right looking, as mangled as she is from battle, but her hair still looks like a burnt gold under his mood lighting, and there will always be something special about the way she looks, spread out on his dark sheets.

But she's still staring at him. Soul can feel the back of his neck burning. "Was that what you wanted?"

Her smile is so damn satisfied. "Maybe I should let you handle things more often."

"Fat chance. You're a control freak and you know it."

His partner chuffs and says nothing when he flings the strap on onto the floor and throws himself down beside her dramatically. God. How does she do physical labor for a living? Soul feels spent, and though he credits half of it to an emotional exhaustion, from watching his meister fight for her life only hours prior, still - he's spent, and he feels boneless and clingy and Maka is _still _looking at him.

"... _What_."

She rolls onto her side and Soul tries valiantly to look anywhere but her admiring gaze. "I love you."

He's definitely blushing. Fuck. "Stop trying to get yourself killed then."

Maka clicks her tongue and closes the space between them - he doesn't _need_ to be held after, okay, but it's _nice,_ being skin to skin with her, and Maka's definitely been using his conditioner, but there's comfort in that, in this familiar smell and familiar buzz of life pressed so tightly to him.

"I won't die when I have you around," she says, and she's so sure about it. Is she trying to make him cry? Brat. "I trust you, Soul."

Soul tucks her head beneath his neck and huffs. "I think you just like the sex after. Death child."

"Mmm." Her lips are warm on his shoulder. "Pervert."

Yeah. He's the pervert here. This had all been his idea, of course, and he hadn't at all been seduced out of making the both of them dinner and also properly tending to his meister's wounds.

Whatever. He's too spent to fight her on it. He'll deal with it tomorrow, just like he'll deal with Maka's hungry whining and her bruises and split lip, and he'll deal with his own sore hips and whatever, whatever. This is the life he lives. Strange as it is, he wouldn't trade it for anything - he'll take this sureness, Maka snoring in his arms, the stress - he's alive with her, and for this moment in time, they exist together. And that's more than he thought he'd ever have.

(Cheese ball).

* * *

if it wasn't obvious soul is trans here and there's a real lack of good smut fic with trans characters in it, so. i tried!


End file.
